A Visitor2 mins 450 2 mins 450
As she woke up from her hoary coffin
She glared at the moon for the unwanted light
Pale fingers, white arms, dead eyes
No! She thought,I don't want this life.
Life? She thought again
Is that what this is called?
As the nightingale concealed behind the shrubs
The night's rhythm merged with the darkness
She went through the unilluminated streets
The streets which once had been the path to her home
'Yes! Home', she thought, with sudden tears in her eyes
She looked up at the moon for the unwanted light.
As she entered through the bronze gate
She saw her old homestead
Reminding her of a missing piece
She couldn't find in her own puzzle
She walked further,'yes! My home'
Remembered the lone soul
She stepped on the threshold of her monument of memories
And saw three figures sharing sorrow in the darkness
She passed by her old father who crying silently
Sat in the corner of the room
Her mother wailing for her lost daughter
And her sister who sat there by the burning hearth.
As she passed everyone by
She looked into their eyes
'no don't cry for me' she said
Today too an unheard voice wept.
She went into her own chamber
Where she and her heart used to rest
And now she saw the paper
She used to write on when she was sad
She took the pen
And with a stiff head shake
She held back her tears
And then glancing at the mourning figures she wrote
"Here I am a free soul
And now please let me go."
Writing this she rose from the old armed chair
Through the old streets she returned to her coffin
Hoping her family would read it this time
And she looked up at the moon for the unwanted light.